No More Than A Broken End
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Bookverse: Aragorn carried the shards of Narsil with him during his early travels, but how much did he actually do with them? What did people think of the man and his blade? Added new chapter 5: Barliman makes a decision.
1. Estel

A/N: Tolkien's characters. In the books, unlike the movies, Narsil didn't just sit in the arms of a statue for sixty years until Elrond got around to reforging it. However, that still leaves the question of how much Aragorn actually used it before it was reforged as Anduril. This little series of drabbles is intended as a peek into the mind of one who would use a broken blade.

* * *

Estel stared forlornly at the broken blade in his hand. Really, of what use was it? He could not fight with it. If you did not know its history, it was not even all that impressive to look upon. Certainly, at one time, Narsil had been a heroic weapon in the hands of kings, but now, it was not really a sword. Now, there was not even really a king.

If Narsil was but a useless remaint of a glorious past, Aragorn was even less than that. He was but a man, for Elbereth's sake; a man who did not even know the customs of other living men that well! And here he had foolishly thought that a broken sword and a forgotten crown gathering dust in a forgotten room of some land he'd never been to would be good enough to impress an elven lady. Narsil had more use than that, he decided, running a finger against the edge. The broken blade was sharp enough to draw blood.

Estel felt a hand brush against his shoulder. "You won't learn to use it just by looking at it, little brother," Elrohir said. Standing behind his twin with an armful of daggers, Elladan flashed the youngster a wink. "Come to the training yard, and we'll see if we can't find some method of wielding it in battle."


	2. A Man of Rohan

A/N: Not my sword or characters. This part takes Aragorn into Rohan for the first time...

* * *

The supply sergeant studied the lanky boy before him, nonplussed. Hrolf had outfitted him as best he could with armor, spear, and shield, and had even given the boy money for brand new riding boots, knowing that there would be nothing in the supplies that would fit the dark young foreigner as well as a proper pair should. "You've been issued your equipment. What else do you want?" 

The boy looked slightly abashed; to his credit, he did not pick at the too-wide breastplate he wore. Hrolf had felt lucky to find one long enough for the gangly dark-haired youth, let alone one that he might yet grow strong enough to fill out, given plenty of time and luck. "I need a sword, sir."

The sergeant snorted, motioning to the tightly cloth-wrapped pommel above the youth's shoulder. He had never seen the boy draw the blade, but Sergeant Hrolf had rarely seen the strange youngster without it, either. "You would volunteer to serve Rohan, even if you are not of her people, but you would not present Thengel King with your own sword? Are we Rohirrim really so far beneath you?" Hrolf leaned back in his chair, watching the boy flush under his withering gaze.

"It's not that! Not by any means," the dark-haired youth stammered. "I would be proud to draw the blade of my fathers next to your king, but as of now, that is simply not posssible." The boy removed the scabbard from his back, taking great care to remove the peace-bonds without unwrapping the hilt. Reverentially, he drew his sword at last, or what was left of it. More than half the blade had broken off from some unknown blow, leaving a jagged edge a mere nine inches or so from the hilt. The boy sheathed it before Hrolf could get a better look.

"You could get that fixed," the supply sergeant offered hesitantly.

The boy shook his head. "For one thing, I haven't the money. For another, - " the ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he set the scabbard back across his shoulders, his hand lingering upon the hilt. "They don't make them like this anymore."

"Thank Bema," Hrolf finished for him, handing him a plain, utilitarian saber.


	3. Thorongil

A/N: Well, whenever I write Aragorn fic, they show up. Can't be helped; that's how Tolkien did his history, after all. Surely, my Hurin fangirling has nothing to do with it... (Insert proper self-mocking emoticon here.)

* * *

Few men could keep mysteries on the battlefield. When faced with trolls, Mumakil, and worse, one's origins and political goals did not matter, only one's ability to keep his feet beneath him. When blood was gushing in time with a heartbeat, the contents of that heart were plainly visible to those that looked. The contents of the conscious mind, at best, slipped away during these times, leaving a warrior with nothing to distract him from training and instinct. 

Still, the secrets were still there, in the background, for those with the time and inclination to look. They held themselves apart from the gore and the animal terror, waiting to reemerge with the rational mind. Like the mind, they did not always return, leaving the earthly remains of a man with his death, - or worse, left him still alive and unashamed, - never to be pulled back from the shadow.

The mystery of Thorongil was one that he would often see, just out of reach, yet never have the time to solve. From the man's tightly wrapped and zealously guarded second sword to his silver-tounged wizardly companion, there were simply things about the captain that never sat well with the Captain-General.

Chiefly amongst them, he listed Thorongil's ability to quickly gain the favor of their ruling lord. When alone amongst the soldiers and the Steward, Thorongil did not hold himself as a foreign or lowborn vassal elevated merely through the kindness of the ruling Steward. Rather, the man conducted himself with less decorum than Denethor himself! The Captain-General privately supposed he should have suspected as much, but it still rubbed the wrong way against his closely guarded heart every time he saw the foreign captain relax and jest with Lord Ecthelion. Worse, in Denethor's eyes, his father laughed with the stranger who so uncannily resembled him.

For the sake of his pride, Denethor did not probe too deeply into the connection between lord and captain, but like the sword upon Thorongil's back, the secrets of the stranger sat just out of the Captain-General's reach, taunting him with promises of justice and vengeance. For the sake of his mind, Denethor did not reach. Like that sword, those secrets promised pain for him as well as for Thorongil, and Denethor was not ready to let go of his rational thoughts just yet.


	4. Strider

A/N: Tolkien's characters. Not including the little epilogue, this will probably be the second-to-last bit, unless Barliman or _that elf_ choose to present a plotbunny. Unlikely at this point, but not unheard of, I suppose...

* * *

It was quiet as he approached the treeline. He had made just enough noise so as to warn his fellows of his coming prescence, scaring most of the nearby wildlife into silence as he came too close for their liking. There was but the sound of a single bird's censuring alarm that did not mute itself immediately at the sight of him. The dark-haired man whistled in return, and was rewarded with movement from the brush. He walked towards it, still cautious, as they all must be in these days. "Halbarad?" he asked once he stood no more than a sword's length away.

"My jay attempts don't fool you anymore? That's it; we're going to have to change the safe-codes if even this city boy can figure them out!" The man who appeared out of the brush and rocks with a self-mocking shake of his head was equally dark-haired and tall, but the uneven hunting of this northern clime had left him with an even rangier build than the newly returned man's was, and weatherbeaten features. Although the woodsman was fast approaching the end of his sixties, it still surprised his younger kinsman to see the streaks of silver peppering Halbarad's beard and hair. He truly had been away too long, he decided.

"Now be fair; I knew I was making enough noise to scare away every real jay for miles," the younger man replied.

"Aye, that you were," Halbarad said with only the slightest trace of censure. "So, Aragorn, what else have those southerners driven out of your head? Lady Arwen? Proper care of your blade?"

The younger man laughed, unwrapping the hilt of Narsil at last. "Hardly!"

Halbarad pulled the broken haft away from him, examining the jagged blade critically. "Hmm… You're certain? I thought it had more left on it than that when you first hunted with us."

Aragorn put his hand above his friend's upon the hilt. "I was smaller then, so it may have looked that way in comparision."

"And you've been using a whole sword, so it may feel that way, now, too," Halbarad needled him. "You've gotten spoiled, city boy."

"That's quite a statement, coming from a man who has never fought with a broken blade or seen the wilds of Ithilien. Not all of Gondor is white stone and comfy taverns, you know."

"Next you'll be telling me that they have more than pasture-fields in Rohan and more than distilleries in Laketown!" Halbarad chuckled. "One of these days I shall have to see these southern wilds of yours, Aragorn. I'd quite like to see those comfy taverns, too, but not everything in Arnor is trees and rocks, either."

"You needn't tell me that, cousin," Aragorn said, slipping after the elder ranger into the forest. Hidden amongst the trees and rocks, his home awaited him.


	5. Longshanks

A/N: Well, as expected, Barliman Butterbur puts in his late appearance, though I offer no promises on the elf. I don't write the latter enough to know what to expect from him, to be honest... (Morgoth, no, they're not my characters!)

* * *

A cloaked figure entered the tavern, giving the inn's proprietor a slight nod. "The usual," it said in a husky voice. 

Barliman Butterbur nodded, biting back a sigh. This Dunadan was known for sitting for hours in the corner, nursing the same glass of weak ale for half the night. At least his formidable presence tended to discourage fights from breaking out. Butterbur reasoned that this free bouncer was generally worth the loss of income that came from seating Strider and not a steadier drinker. "Will any of your… friends be joining you?" the innkeeper asked.

It was not that he minded the rangers, or the old greybeard who occasionally sat amongst them. The old man, especially, could be good for an amusing story when the winter winds blew a little too hard or a kind word when business was getting chaotic. But the rangers' tabs… If they weren't so good at keeping the peace, Barilman would have to throw the whole lot of them out of his inn. They promised to make good on their debts, of course, but there was only so much one could do with rabbit skins.

"Perhaps" was all the answer Strider was willing to give. At least the man paid off his own debts, and occasionally his friends', when he had the extra money for it…

"Here you are, then." Barliman set down the mug, releasing it once Strider produced a coin. Good Gondorian copper, that. Barliman wasn't sure that he wanted to know where the Dunadan had gotten it from.

Nob rushed over to the bar, his clothes and curly hair in even more disarray than usual. "The stables, Mr. Butterbur! Better come quick!"

Barliman glanced across the common room, considering the bored and boisterous customers with equal apprehension. Across from him, the ranger sighed, closing his eyes before touching the scabbard on his back. "Might I be of assistance, Nob?" Strider asked.

"Just hurry!" The hobbit dashed back out, the Dunadan hot at his heels. The watered-down ale had been left at the bar. Very carefully, Barilman picked it up and placed the coin back beneath it, wiping around it with a clean cloth.

They returned some half an hour later, the hobbit wiping away sweat and chattering with his cousins; the man sheathing what looked to be a long-hilted dagger. It was rather comical, the way he carried such a small blade in so big a scabbard. Barliman supposed it was part of the whole ranger mystique, and quite an affordable method to scare off would-be highwaymen, on the side.

Strider picked up his ale – now rather flat – and took a long, deep sip. Barliman waited until he had set the glass back down before pretending to notice the coin. "Another one, then, sir?"

"Oh, let him have one on the house, Butterbur! He was brilliant out there!" Nob spoke up.

The innkeeper shrugged. "Well, if Nob insists…" He pushed the coin back, and pulled out another glass. Beneath the bar, he poured it to the brim with his finest whiskey. And water, but then, you didn't let a ranger like Strider get drunk all in one go.


	6. Aragorn

A/N: Tolkien owns, Jackson inspires, and the nuzgul made me do it. By the way, for those of you involved on Henneth Annuin, if bits of this besides the recognizable lines from Beanomir look familiar, did you know that if you rearrange the letters in _subtext_ you get _bust ex-(sword_ _symbol)_? Or something... The original version of this chapter was written for part of a female!Aragorn AU challenge there. I am (mostly) unrepentant.

* * *

"You are no elf," Boromir observed. The library was quiet and dusky, making him ashamed to break the older man's serene silence. The stranger gave him an arch look, but refrained from commenting as Boromir sat down next to him. "You seek something here as well?" 

"A place to read in peace," the dark-haired man replied, returning to his book.

"Forgive me for the interruption, but it has been a very long, lonesome journey. I had hoped that I might find a friend here, but if you would prefer not to be bothered, I shall leave you to your book." Boromir bowed, rising regretfully.

"I thank you sir. If you wish for company, there is quite a variety of books. You could find one and make yourself comfortable. The library isn't reserved." His glance did not appear to waver from the text.

Boromir was not quite sure what to make of the stranger's offer. "I may do that." He rose to browse the shelves, somewhat half-heartedly. The great majority was written in elvish of some form or another. They would be right up Faramir's alley, but Boromir had forgotten most of the language, having never had to use it since childhood lessons. Nobles and scholars of the white city spoke it, but soldiers learned their commands in Westron.

Boromir flipped open a book at random, returning towards the man on the bench. "There is also a variety of seats. And this one is reserved," he said without looking up.

So much for interacting with a member of his own race. Boromir sighed and returned the book to the shelf, deciding that perhaps he ought to try to find the dwarf or the halfings instead. The latter, at least, seemed to be quite cheery folk from what little Boromir had seen of them. Almost too cheery. It just made him feel even more homesick, to see such happy-go-lucky little lads. His eyes wandered the library aimlessly as he tried to decide on a course of action. Absently, he noticed a mural upon the wall depicting some ancient battle scene. A closer look revealed that this painting was not focused on elves, for once.

Unconsciously, his fingers reached out to touch the painted figures, locked forever in this moment of combat, on the edge of victory. The Dark Lord was as intimidating as he had been in any of those old picture books Boromir's mother had read to him and his brother as children. Tall and foreboding, his ring hand upon his mace and readying for a downward swing… Boromir's finger lingered upon the golden paint, so bright against the reds, blacks, and greys that threatened to overwhelm the rest of the painting. His eyes turned to Isildur. How small the figure seemed in comparison, barely larger than Boromir's hand. Even if he were to rest his entire forearm against the mural, the man did not think he could cover up Sauron.

"Quite a blade, to manage this," he murmured bemusedly. Unseen, the lanky man's head shot up from his book. He eyed the Gondorian suspiciously from across the room. "And yet, there is nothing of it left." Boromir's thumb, with its oft-abused nail, pushed into the canvass.

"How do you know?" Boromir jerked back to the present, turning to find that he at last commanded the lanky stranger's full attention, his book lain aside unmarked. Those grey eyes were rather disconcerting, actually, much like his father's in their ability to see everything.

"How do I know what, sir?" The Gondorian attempted to keep a civil tone, failing quite miserably.

"If it is gone," the older man prompted.

"The sword? Come, sir, 'twas lost with the last of Elendil's heirs." With a last glance at the painting, Boromir turned towards the door. Better to leave now, when he could spark the man's interest, than later, after he'd made a thorough ass of himself. He stopped at the silky sound of a drawn blade.

"So Isildur's heirs are lost," the strange man said softly, balancing the broken hilt of a sword upon his knees. It didn't look like much, chipped and worn as if someone had continued to use it long after the blade had been broken. There was enough left that it could be used as a club, or a long-handled knife, but the break was jagged and unwieldy. Somehow, though, his hand looked _right_ upon the handle, as if he were meant to use it and had, over the years.

"So they are." _Who was he?_ Boromir asked himself. The dark hair and gray eyes spoke of Numenorean parentage, but his dress was not of any Gondorian court that Boromir had attended. If anything, Boromir would describe the man's clothing as elvish, but the lanky stranger was obviously not one of his host's race. "May I?" Boromir asked, reaching for the weapon upon the older man's lap.

"If you wish," he shrugged, passing the younger fellow the blade, "but a wise man would be cautious with it."

Boromir ran his finger against the edge, drawing blood. "Still sharp."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." There was a light smile on the stranger's face as the Gondorian regarded the hilt with the critical air of a lifelong warrior testing an unfamiliar weapon.

"'Tis a proud blade," Boromir decreed. "The balance is off, but it's light, and not about to shatter any more than it already has. But honestly, who fights with a broken sword?"

"One who must, or one who honors him that must," the man said firmly, putting his hand below Boromir's on the hilt. "You can either complain that your sword's balance is off, or you can find where its balance point is." Boromir allowed the stranger to reclaim the blade, stepping back as he raised it briefly into the light before resheathing it. "It has been the weapon of my forefathers for generations."

"You broke it recently, and have come to have it reforged, then?" Boromir grasped the elder's purpose at last, or so he supposed.

"Half of that is right." The older man nodded agreeably. "It has been long since my ancestors' sword was whole, but its time comes soon. Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I've a book I'd like to read." Without another word, the man picked his elvish tome back up and flipped in search of his lost page. Boromir looked once more between the painting and the strange, dark, skinny man with his elven fashions, Numenorean features, and broken sword. He was an odd one, certainly.


	7. Epilogue: Boromir

A/N: Thank you to those who have chosen to read through this little work, and extra thanks to those who chose to review, as well. As always, Tolkien's characters.

* * *

He had been trained since boyhood to put every resource at hand to use in battle, but this did not stop him from cursing his lack. It was his own fault that his shield had been left behind, as it was his own fault that he faced these creatures alone. But all his training would be for naught if the blows to his arm were doing nearly as much damage to his sword as he imagined they were. He had no weapon, no shield, no safety left but for the blade in his hands. It was growing unbearably heavy, this last tie to life…

Steel rang against steel once more, and with a sharp crack, much of the weight upon his arm was removed. He stepped back, flexing numb, nigh-on unfeeling fingers to assure himself that he had not dropped the entire sword. As the orc rushed him, Boromir tested the haft with a quick, twisting thrust, found a temporary balance point, and fought on.

Briefly, he wondered if anyone would honor this broken end.


End file.
